


Way Back To The Light

by nothing_rhymes_with_ianto



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Addiction, Gen, M/M, Rehab
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-02
Updated: 2013-05-02
Packaged: 2017-12-10 04:41:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/781888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothing_rhymes_with_ianto/pseuds/nothing_rhymes_with_ianto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He checked himself into the rehab centre. Enjolras' visit and support is just the push he needs to start getting better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Way Back To The Light

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when you have Recovery by Frank Turner stuck in your head.

The halls are quiet. Most patients have taken their visitors out to walk around the grounds or back to their rooms for quiet conversation. Grantaire walks from his room to the reception slowly, pulling his jumper down over his hands and gripping the knitted fabric between his first and middle fingers. Halfway there, he can see the warm yellow light of the reception spilling out onto the tile of the hallway, and he stops, wanting desperately to turn back. But this is what his therapist has been talking with him about: the running away from things, the hiding from the difficult or scary stuff in his booze and his sarcasm. Closing his eyes, he takes a deep breath and clenches his fingers more tightly around the sweater. God, he wants a drink right now, just to take the nervous edge off. But he can’t. He has to walk down the hallway and into the waiting room. One foot in front of the other. That’s it.

Enjolras is sitting in one of the uncomfortable wooden chairs pushed against the wall of the reception, eyes darting around at the motivational posters and informational brochures hanging everywhere, feet tapping against the floor, and he looks as nervous as Grantaire feels. He stands quickly when he sees Grantaire in the doorway, stepping closer with a hesitance Grantaire has never seen before. He watches Enjolras take in his appearance, the dark bags around his reddened eyes, the stringy hair, the way the sweater hangs loosely about his too-thin body, the shaking hands that grip his sleeves.

“You look like shit.”

Grantaire manages a smile. “Thanks.”

“Sorry—I just—” Enjolras looks incredibly uncertain, small and skittish in the bad fluorescent light, and it make Grantaire feel off-kilter, so he shrugs.

“It’s okay. Come on.” Enjolras trails behind him back to his room, looking at the closed doors and the people milling about in the rec room as they pass. Grantaire knows he’s freaking out about how much it looks like a hospital; it made him feel weird the first couple weeks, too. He flips on the light in his room and sits down on the end of the bed where the blue sheets are crumpled. Enjolras leans awkwardly in the doorway, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans.

“So, um, how are you?”

Grantaire shrugs and tugs on his sleeve. “Getting better, I guess. Mostly I feel like shit and I want a drink all the time, but I think I’m getting better. My therapist seems to think so.”

“You’re seeing a therapist?”

“They call it a counsellor here. He’s basically just talking to me about getting through my addiction and staying positive and stuff like that.”

“That’s good.”

“Yeah, I guess. Are you going to come in? The room isn’t going to trap you. This isn’t Hotel California.”

Enjolras chuckles quietly and shuffles into the room, sitting gingerly on the desk chair Grantaire indicates. They look at each other for a while, saying nothing. Enjolras looks good, his blue shirt making his eyes even more vivid, his blonde hair curling about his ears like a halo, and his expression is soft and worried. It’s a sweet relief to see that expression over any other. Grantaire only vaguely remembers the blacked out screaming match that had happened in the café, the one that had ended with Enjolras’ furious expression haunting him long after the other man had turned away, the one that had ended with him falling down in an alleyway an hour later and hating himself more than ever. The one that had ended with a stumbling journey across town to check himself in here, because he never wanted to see Enjolras look at him that way again.

The memory makes him shift a little, pushing his fingers through his hair. He grimaces slightly at the memory of their shouting. “Look, I’m-I’m sorry about that night. Really.”

Enjolras nods and smiles gently. “I know. And I should have known better than to antagonize you and provoke you. I had a pretty good idea of how messed up you were.”

“Can we—can we still be friends?”

“Grantaire, I’m willing if you’re willing.”

“Please.” Grantaire stares at his lap, uncertain about how to speak until the words tumble from his lips without much preparation. “I want to get better. I want to go back to sitting in the café and listening to you talk. I know I was an asshole and I know it didn’t sound like it since I was contradicting you all the time, but I loved hearing you talk. Your speeches—they gave me a hope I didn’t think I had, didn’t think I’d ever have. I guess I didn’t want it. It scared me. It still does. But I want to keep listening to you speak. Maybe if I get over this it won’t scare me so much.”

The hand on his arm is sudden, and nearly makes him jump. Enjolras’ face when he looks up is gentle and encouraging. “I’m glad you want to hear me speak. And I think I’m glad it scared you before. I think it meant you wanted to believe it.”

“Maybe if I get better, I can.”

“I think so.” The awkward tension in the room dissipates and Enjolras settles back into the chair.

“So what’s your next plan to save the world, Apollo?” Grantaire asks, but this time his voice is sincere instead of mocking, the nickname no longer full of sarcasm, now far too nakedly reverent.

They discuss politics and methods and plans and the goings-on of the rest of the Amis. Enjolras tells him about Eponine and Musichetta locking Courfeyrac in the café’s walk-in freezer for being too handsy in public. It feels good to freely laugh again. Enjolras is mid-explanation of his collaboration with the local worker’s union when his watch beeps.

“Ah, it’s time for the meeting. I’m sorry Grantaire, I’ve got to go.”

Grantaire waves him away with a smile. “It’s fine. What would our friends do without their fine leader? Tell them I say hi, all right? Give Jehan a kiss for me.”

“Of course.”

They part with a handshake that’s easier and more friendly than either of them expected. Grantaire sits back down with a genuine smile on his face for the first time in a long time. That afternoon his therapist tells him he’s been making good progress.

****

It’s been just over two months. His friends have visited him on and off throughout his time at the inpatient centre, but none more than Enjolras. Enjolras has sat by his side while he ranted about his cravings, has brought him good food and new music, has made him laugh, has given him pep talks for him alone that made him feel better for days. Enjolras, who is leaning against his car outside the centre as Grantaire makes his way down the front steps, duffle bag over his shoulder.

“Hi,” he waves nervously, a crooked smile on his face as he gets closer, but Enjolras reaches out and pulls him into a hug.

“Congratulations, Grantaire.” Enjolras pulls back and holds him out at arms’ length. “You look great.”

“You saw me last week.”

“That was in there. You’re out now, Grantaire. You look great out.”

He shuffles his feet. “Thanks.”

Enjolras takes his duffle from him and puts it in the back seat. “You’re welcome. Ready to go home?”

Relief and anticipation shoots through him, and he suddenly feels lighter. “God, yes.” 

Enjolras holds the car door open for him with a smile. “Your ride, Monsieur.”

“Stop it!” But the face Grantaire makes does nothing, and Enjolras laughs as he closes the door and goes round to the driver’s side. It’s only once they’ve pulled out onto the road that a question arises in Grantaire’s mind.

“Where’s ‘home’? Last time I checked, all my stuff was in storage and my flat was rented out to someone else.”

Enjolras shrugs. “I figured you could stay at my place for a while. It’s as good a place as any, and you know I won’t have any alcohol there. Also it means you can listen to me talk whenever you want. And complain at me whenever you want, too.”

Grantaire snorts and punches him in the arm. Then he shifts in his seat to face the blonde man, expression serious. “Thank you so much for doing this. You have no idea how much it means to me. Really.”

Enjolras nods. “You’re welcome.”

Grantaire switches the subject back to their friends before it gets too awkward, and they joke and laugh and make fun of the Amis as they drive home. 

“Welcome home,” Enjolras jokes as he unlocks the door to his flat. Grantaire follows him inside. “I’ve already made up the spare bedroom for you, if you want to get settled.”

The spare bedroom holds not only Enjolras’ spare bed and dresser, but also some of the boxes of stuff from Grantaire’s flat. They unpack his things together, laughing and talking, and Grantaire silently marvels at the friendship they’ve cultivated. Later, they sit on the couch and watch stupid television while Enjolras tries and fails to concentrate on his research. Grantaire feels happy, honestly, uncomplicatedly happy, for the first time in far too long. He’s glad Enjolras is here to be by his side while he recovers. He’s glad that Enjolras is here to help him walk away from the precipice he’s managed to climb up from, to take his hand and guide him to someplace with light and hope.


End file.
